


Orenda

by Ravelingeudaimonia



Category: Naruto
Genre: Founders, Gen, Multi, Pre-Konoha, Warring States Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravelingeudaimonia/pseuds/Ravelingeudaimonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fought the wrath of the mightiest of fires, dancing upon the darkest, blackest of embers. As the mountain could no longer bow to the wind, it was only their ashes that would speak of the forsaken tales that had already long crumbled. "The purpose of all wars, is peace." (Branches off manga chapter 621, Semi-canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sehnsucht

 

* * *

_Sehnsucht - the inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what; a yearning for a far, familiar, non-earthly land one can identify as one's home._

* * *

_Standard disclaimers apply._

Dawn had long cracked upon the skies while many lay still, sleeping and untouched. Smoke winded around the encampments that were pitched in the grassy landscape, its lingering breath flowing in and out of the reeds that were steadily growing with pollen. A loud clang could be heard in the centre of the seemingly quiet district, the beating hammer of a blacksmith long at work. There was shouting, marching and a cry for victory as numerous groups of heavily clad soldiers trailed on, causing those who were dozing to wake again once more at the sound of heavy footsteps that pounded the young soils of the earth.

They gazed at the sun with such fortitude to reach the heights of a dream, grinning at the ladies who had stopped harvesting rice crops to gaze at the men with utter adoration. They stared at the overcasting mountains with such valour, saluting at the young children who cheered them on with much enthusiasm as they too, wondered when they would enter a battlefield that shaped the lives of so many. Such a time had lasted for longer than the children had ever known as battles for blood and fury erupted through the endless days and nights. Out of hope and for some, out of sheer spite.

Yet, for Senju Hashirama the morning sun had already long risen.

He squatted behind a giant pot, hidden in an uneven corner of the tent flaps and carefully constricted his breathing in order to listen to every miniscule word that was being said. Looking carefully at his surroundings, he noted that the tent was quite small with few ornaments.

_Father's always been so discreet._

Through the odd-looking mixture of stoneware and dusty ceramics, he sniggered as he caught a Senju elder dozing, her snores and inhalations causing a nearby hanky to fly off her nose and on top again. The sudden chuckle triggered a cautious glance from a shinobi nearby, raising an eyebrow at the randomly giggling pot. He would have to be careful.

As the minutes rode on Hashirama began to yawn, pondering at why he had ever sneaked out from his mother's watchful scrutiny in the first place, against Tobirama's warning. Peering through the animal hide that covered his curious expression, he bit his lip as a fist was raised and thumped against the back of a wooden chair several times. Finally, there was silence.

"Speak."

It wasn't the first time he had ever seen his father in such an imposing manner, but Hashirama certainly knew that it wouldn't be his last. The commanding general was at least six feet tall, towering over his younger subordinate.

"I'm afraid we've lost quite a number, General."

"Oh? How many this time?"

"It's still too early to make an estimated guess. All I can conclude with the current data is that there'll be more than I'll ever be able to count."

A calculating murmur buzzed amongst the Senju elders and the sitting soldiers, for the motion of the war had been lost in regards to their previous terms. Senju Butsuma furrowed his brow as he considered the indicating defeat, folding his arms over the metal clasps of his red armour that was grasped tightly by boiled leather and bounded with thick string.

His mouth formed into a grim line. "And the land that was the overridden with the Sarutobi clansmen?"

"An utter success, sir. I've had a number of our soldiers construct the foundations needed for the farming and livestock production."

Hashirama raised his face and tensed at his tone, comprehending the reasons as to why the official would shudder at the seemingly fascinated outlook of the war lord. There was fire and blood in the smile of Senju Butsuma, but his eyes seemed devoid of any warmth.

"Excellent."

A wind broke out amid the surrounding vegetation and a boy no less than the age of eight walked in. He marched in without any doubt or hesitation, his dark eyes taking no heed of the flickering whispers that shadowed his every step, a number of Senju elders and soldiers nodding and speaking softly. Clearly they were impressed with such an entrance.

The boy stopped short in front the two commanding shinobi, bowing and lowering his eyes to the ground.

"General Butsuma-san. General Hideo-san."

The latter released a smile, "Your son, General?"

Butsuma nodded proudly and motioned for him to rise, a hand gently patting the soft mound of white hair. "My youngest, to be exact. Senju Tobirama."

Hashirama couldn't help but release a small surge of pride at the sight of his brother, a bloodied kunai hitched at his waist, a tarnished rabbit grasped in his small hands. He knelt to examine the animal and beamed as he stretched the fur of the corpse, "Only six years old and ready to enter the battlefield. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if this one ends up with more victory scars than me."

They laughed as the boy merely responded with a solemn frown and salute, his eyes firm and unwavering. A soldier sitting nearby suddenly exclaimed loudly, "And the child with the rare elemental affinity?"

Hashirama froze.

In an instant, a shuriken was sent flying and he yelped in a futile effort to leap out.

The pot that had been concealing him shattered into a dozen pieces as Hashirama he lay sprawled on the floor, groaning at the sudden pain in his abdomen. With animal hide that had been covering his face so well now lay on the floor, now tattered and torn, Butsuma massaged his forehead to ponder how he ever made it inside the tent without gaining significant notice in the first place. A number of the Senju elders muttered under their breaths.

"Insolent child."

"Nothing good will ever come outta that boy."

"What an idiot. How is he the General's son?"

"If he ever leads this clan into ruination, then may the gods help us all."

Hashirama's ego instantly deflated at the comments, cringing as he steadily rose and brushed off the lingering twigs and dirt, catching the unimpressed gaze of Butsuma. "This is my third son...Hashirama."

"I hear he had the most promising skills. The combination of Earth and Water is rare, indeed."

"He is…" Butsuma scowled as he struggled to form a coherent sentence, "a fine specimen of our clan."

It was in retrospect, an act of sheer disrespect and utter humiliation for the son of a commanding general to have been caught snooping around during a gathering. Especially when not formally invited or required to partake in any sort of manner, Tobirama noted. Seeing this, Butsuma waved a hand in a bid to motion for the tent to be cleared. He nodded curtly at the lower ranked solider.

"Leave now."

"Yes, sir."

As soon as the last entrant had left the tent, Hashirama grimaced. Steadily, he stood in front of the commander's wooden table as the commander's cold gaze soon fell upon him. An urge to stare at the mushy dirt that lay wedged between his toes soon became far more interesting. He opened and closed his mouth, unsure of when to speak.

"Father –"

"One of the most important rules for a shinobi is to be able to hide yourself. You've failed that superbly and perhaps tarnished your reputation amongst some of the elders."

"I was just –"

"What are you going to do if the enemy uncovers your presence? What are you going to do if your exposure is deemed futile? What are the Senju to do with one less of a shinobi, let alone my own son?"

The firing questions hit mid-air in silence as Hashirama raised his eyes to look at the documents that lay scattered array on the desk, squinting hard.

"Those are the profiles of the Senju soldiers."

"Obviously."

_Senju._

The name brought fear to thousands, only men who were either foolish at heart or corrupt in mind would dare to challenge and testify their throughout the land the clan had already begun to make its mark of trial and testimonial, rights upon reason and judgement through judiciary. However, it was the heated flickers of fire that stole the hearts of those who stood outside in the cold.

Within the bloodshed and mangled flesh that draped the barren landscapes of occupying war, it was only in their dying days that people had witnessed the sight of light that filled each Senju's actions and words. For it was love and love  _only_  that enthused and galvanized the Senju.

Through chance and favour, it had also been love that Hashirama had been born.

Gifted with physical skills beyond the extraordinary and bestowed with a mind that could examine their surroundings with seconds, it was clear at an early age that Hashirama would one day reach new heights needed for the biodiversity of the future generations. His distinguished heritage as the clan head's son only emphasised the state, creating an even more compelling atmosphere to utilise whatever skill children would have to offer for the upcoming of war.

As his eyes scanned the uneven wooden notches of the chair, they were instantly fixated on profiles of three figures he had known all his life.

_Kawarama, Tobirama and Itama_.

The presence of his brothers had meant everything.

For it signified a drastic pivotal change concerning Hashirama's approach to life and the meaning of his own existence. In the mindsets of war and conflicting hostilities, the three had provided him with the resting pillar of solace.

Outside, shrieking and anguished cries could be heard as an explosion blasted with such force that a ceramic plate that was hung above their heads fell from the metal hinges, its rungs long rusted and peeling.

A paper fell to their feet as Hashirama stared at the name scrawled at top left hand corner, reinforcing what he had already long suspected.

"You've sent Kawarama out onto the battlefield, haven't you?" he questioned in disbelief as Tobirama became extremely still, "That's why mother was so upset."

Butsuma stood unfazed. "You have no right to prod and pry into such matters. You beg for quantity, and yet you whine about the quality."

It was the significance of his three brothers that had sparked his resolution to protect all those he loved, the fiery ignition that flowed untouched within his veins. Above it all, many would've told Hashirama not to complain. For the young boy should've been happy for he all that had and all that was yet to come. Skills and the heritage that was needed to accentuate it – he had it all.

He had everything.

And yet within his heart, it wasn't enough.

_Those who are at war are not with peace within themselves._

"Tell me, why do we fight, Hashirama?" Butsuma asked softly, noticing his son's dismal expression, "Many will say it is for the honour of being a shinobi. Many will say it is for the dignity of being a Senju. However, we fight for this so called thing known as  _peace_. "

Taking a step forward, he towered over the boy, yet muscles were tensed as the latter stood his ground. "Such a wonder, to be obtained. Such a dream to be brought into reality. Whatever the cost for the Senju, don't you agree?

A piercing scream erupted as the plate hit the ground, the Senju symbol painted on the concaved exterior shattered. This time, even Tobirama flinched.

"But really, even you adults know that such a thing known a peace cannot be purchased for even a high price." Hashirama responded bitterly, "Why can't adults admit that a bad peace with allies is far better than a good war with our enemies?"

He was on the ground in an instant. A throbbing sensation stung across his cheek as looked up in the realization that his father had knocked him to the ground in anger, ire glinting in his eyes.

_Tch._

He cringed as he felt the cuff of his upper garments stretch, the threads of the red fabric thinning. Struggling against the tight folds of the flimsy material, his arms and legs flailed wildly as he tasted a crumbly mixture blood, dust and dirt. Butsuma yanked him hard by the collar.

"Another important rule is that a shinobi must follow their commander. You've failed two rules in day, Hashirama. More or less, that and you've intruded into an important assembly between the Senju – against my order."

He fell to the ground in a heap as Butsuma scoffed at the sight, pondering at whatever went so wrong when this particular son had been born.

"A king does not bow to his inferiors ever so quickly. Nor must you bow to yours."

He looked up and found that Hashirama was staring at the ground ever so stubbornly, anguish hidden behind his eyes. Tobirama dropped down to pull him up, a cautious eye tending to the dark markings on his now bruised cheek.

"And…what if…?"

"You're both dismissed."

"What if I don't want to be a king?"

"Oh but you will, Hashirama." Said Butsuma as he turned his back on the pair, knowing that the truth was so rare it might have been delightful to tell it, "You will want to be one that obtains the crown  _first_."

Kneeling down to examine the shattered bowl, a frustrated sigh escaped Butsuma. Hashirama pleaded with him.

"About the dismissal of –"

"Now get out, Hashirama. Tobirama, check up on the territorial markings."

"But Kawarama –"

" _I said get out, Hashirama."_

~-0-~

"You should not have said that."

"I know."

"Father was extremely angry."

"I know."

"You're dishonouring the Senju with the words that utter from your mouth."

" _I know."_

They had long set off into the forest since the morning and still, Tobirama continued to berate him. The expanse of the forest was immensely huge as many areas had been deemed unexplored. Trudging along the wet leaves, Hashirama wrinkled his nose at the stench of the muddied bark that lay in a heap around them. After what seemed like ages, Tobirama squatted to the ground and placed a finger, analysing the surrounding bushes for any signs of life.

"I'll take my leave here, brother."

"Alright. I'll return in a few hours."

Tobirama merely rolled his eyes at his brother's downcast response, "Don't do anything stupid – or rash. Otherwise I'll have to drag your corpse to father."

"Heh." Hashirama's mouth formed a soft smile as he watched the younger boy walk off, never taking his gaze off him, "That's if you get to it before it finishes rotting."

He nodded solemnly and walked off.

All throughout his experiences of battle, he had never shied away from meeting his brother's eyes. A wavering gaze was an obvious sign of weakness. Yet, they were in a war and could not afford any more weaknesses other than the developing that psychological warfare that was consuming all that existed.

_Peace cannot be achieved through violence; it can only be attained through understanding._

As he mumbled to the heavens of his complaints, his hopes and what were ever to become of his dreams, he failed to notice a lingering twig and tripped. A number of splinters were lodged in his hands as he frowned at the prospect of drawing them out.

The minutes passed and soon he found himself regarding at the small punctures on his palm, of what were to become of the lives of the future children. And yet, had he even stopped to think of those beyond?

_Goddamn that hurts._

Looking back at the trail of splinters, even he knew that by imagining anything redeemable then all hope would be lost.

_Plop._

Instantly, he looked up and recoiled behind a tree in a defensive stance as he cautiously slinked forward. The sun was bright, its rays illuminating the surface of a river that lied in forest. A silhouette of an unknown individual was visible.

"Tch."

Only metres away, a boy stood at the edge of a lightly flowing river and growled at the stones that lay sunken in the water.

_Plop._

Again, the boy supressed a scowl as Hashirama began to creep forward. This time he picked up a pebble as well.

_Plop._

As he looked closer, a gasp escaped him as he realized that boy couldn't have older than him; but a younger age was out of the question. A thick mane of black hair draped over the dark blue fabric that garmented his figure. For a moment – just for a moment, Hashirama wondered if he could get away with playfully tugging the stranger's hair.

_Plop._

Creeping closer amidst the earth, the frustrated expression on the stranger held him back. The boy's lips were set in a firm line, his dark eyes enveloping the other side of the river. Hashirama watched as the boy picked up another pebble and muttered a foul curse at god knows what. There was a dangerous fire in his eyes, an ardent desire to reach a dream, a yearning for something with such fervour that for many would've been incomprehensible. A covet for perfection glinted harshly in his tone.

"Next time I'll definitely get to the other side."

Somewhere along the east lines of the coast, Hashirama knew that sea waves were thrashing wildly across the rocks, eager to lap up the remains of soft sand and what was left of any bloodied carcass that spent its dying days on the coast.

_Plop._

Above it all were the mountains that gazed over the skyline, various clans taking heed of the fresh news that the famous Senju and Uchiha clans had succeeded in obtaining another golden – inheriting the lands and natural resources that would enrich a nation.

As the tide changed its course, the river in front of him rippled and tree leaves swayed in harmony to Mother Nature. The winds that flew through the rocky terrain of the lands echoed and tore at the mountains, but even Hashirama knew that no matter how hard the winds would howl – the mountain could not bow to it.

_Wars may be fought with weapons, but they are won by men. It is the spirit of men who follow and of the man who leads that gains the victory._

Readjusting the small stone in his hand and stepping closer so that he was just metres away from the river and the stranger, he flexed his arms and threw it into the air.

_If I ever want to be a king, I want to rule myself._

Instead of falling into the water, it landed on the other side.

~-0-~

It would have been quite accurate for one to assume that there was an inevitable wave of strong competition in the air. The unknown boy spun around with such speed that Hashirama couldn't help but widen his eyes as his hair whipped around, his dark eyes furious.

Clearly, the stranger wasn't a normal non-combatant. The boy with the long hair narrowed his eyes; his feet positioned in a defensive in a bid to either fight or take flight. Hashirama winked as a wistful smile fell on his lips and he offered a grin and drank in the sight, "You should aim a little higher when you throw. I suppose that's how you get the knack of it."

The boy stared at him deadpanned, clearly unimpressed at his advice. "I know that." The stranger snorted, turning away brusquely, "If I really want it, it will get there!" He stared at the stone in his palm for a few seconds, stopping to inspect the arrival of the newcomer. A dark eyebrow quirked up in sudden interest, "Anyway, who are you?"

"Hmm…"

A smirk lit up the Hashirama's face as he considered the question. These were times of strife and secrecy, with much needed prudence. As much as he would've preferred to be honest, he would have to twist the truth a little.

"Currently, we could say I'm your rival in playing skipping stones." Noting that he seemed friendly enough, he knew that there was a monster in every man if the wrong step was taken and assumption over estimation was in hand. A brazen desire to gaze at his pebble that lay on the other side of the river compelled him to do so.

"The only catch here is," he grinned proudly, "Mine got to the other side, first."


	2. Novaturient

* * *

Novaturient  - desiring or seeking powerful change in one's life, behaviour or situation

* * *

_Standard disclaimers apply._

It was in complete remembrance of the hushed whispers of the river as its water ran through opposing pebbles, that it was a war they were living in.

“You never answered my question! Who the hell are you?!”

If the world wasn’t fighting the wrath of the mightiest of fires in the bid to obtain an entity that many would have deemed the saviour of mankind, _peace,_ asthey so called it – perhaps Hashirama may have considered a more candid response. If the world wasn’t dancing upon the darkest, blackest embers of their enemies’ burnt ashes in the hopes for a kingdom that could ignite a light not comprehended in the dark – perhaps Hashirama may have known that there was no need to pretend because in the end, it would only be him left perplexed between two worlds.

_Perhaps indeed._

“My name is Hashirama.” He shifted on his feet and lowered his eyes at the stranger’s irritated gaze, “Probably best if I don’t give you my surname…” The darked haired boy standing opposite of him frowned at the response and cast a patronizing stare. There was an uncomfortable minute of silence, as if wanting to move a shogi piece and yet tentative of its outcome it would have on the entire game. Softness was apparent in his cheeks yet the bones held a look of yearning hunger, a call to be fed despite the lack of food that already enriched such muscular flesh.

War had always starved those looking for peace.

The boy shook his head and fumbled with the pebble in his hand.

“Hashirama, eh…?” he asked, cocking his head to the side for confirmation. “Take a closer look, coz this time it’ll make it!”

With a sudden gesture of sheer velocity, he raised his arm and flung it forward. Hashirama narrowed his eyes in recognition of the arm motion. The pebble tore through the wind; a whipping sound ensued.

_The way he throws it – he must be used to handling shuriken._

It bounded across the gentle currents of the water for a few seconds, dropping into the water before reaching the other side with a loud splash.

_Plop._

For a moment, they stared dumbly as the pebble fell. The unknown stranger swivelled to face Hashirama. “Asshole! You stood behind me on purpose to distract me, didn’t you? It’s so obvious that you’re trying to distract me!”

_“Eh?!”_

 “I’m so sensitive; I can’t even pee if someone’s standing behind me! That’s how aware of my surroundings I am!”

Hashirama didn’t know whether to be mortified or to admire the prospect of such physical sensitivity. He fell back to the ground at the sudden exclamation and bowed his head, the boy from the river holding a pointed finger accusingly at him.

“I’m sorry…”

 “Err… relax. No need to get all emotional and stuff.”

The boy raised an eyebrow at Hashirama’s seemingly penitent expression of regret, “You don’t have to get that depressed.” He scratched his head, somewhat rueful. “I mean, I guess it was just an excuse because I couldn’t get to the other side.”

“No need to explain,” Hashirama sniffled. “Your ego is just so big that you have god complex.”

 “Why you…I can’t tell if you’re hyper sensitive or just a smartass.”

“Hahahaha! But one thing that you should be able to tell is that I’m better than you at stone skipping!”

A vein threatened to pop on his forehead and a scowl ensued.. “Keep gloating and we’ll see how well you skip across this creek. Next time I’ll use _you_ instead of the stone!”

A wounded expression swept across Hashirama’s face.

“Forgive me.”  He squatted and turned his head, crying. “I’ve clearly upset you. To atone for my sin, you have my permission to use me as a rock and throw me across the creek.”

The stranger began to marvel at the incredulous ridicule of the boy. “Do you realize that _you’re_ annoying too? There’s no need to shed a few tears over it.”

However even Hashirama knew that difficult people were all the more rewarding to please. The truth of an issue was rarely pure and never simple; it was always a delight to tell others of how tainted it truly was. An image of the boy he had just met struggling to heave him across the water floated across his mind. “I just hope…” He bit back a giggle, “I can get to the other side without drowning…”

_“I can’t stand you! Go away!”_

“Well then, if you say so…”

_“No! Wait!!!”_

“Do you want me to leave or not?” Hashirama turned to face the hand that had grasped his shoulder dumbly, “Could you please make yourself clear and stop being so indecisive –”

He froze.

When a pebble had been dropped into water, its sudden fall would cause a number of ripples to undulate and then slowly cease. This time, the ripples were only intensifying.

A body lay sprawled in the river.

 “What’s that?”

In an instant, Hashirama raced forward to kneel over the lifeless figure and he broke out in cold sweat. The shinobi had fallen face down, blood seeping through multiple wounds covering his chest.  He stared at the torn cloth that was ripped from the sewn garments, intrigued and yet slightly trembling with the dying shocks of battle fervour. Water rushed atop the floating body, and he began to wonder how the river could shine when it collided with the sunlight.

He wondered how the sun could ever bend down to caress the horizon in a great swathe of light – when the moon was forever bound to bleeding battlefield and cast shadows on the dead. There was a budding silence between the trees as he traced a finger over the crest that was engraved on the man’s attire.

_This is the crest of the Hagoromo Clan._

He shuddered to think of the clan’s finding of the body, the discovery of his eyes – glazed – frozen – trapped in the world of oblivion. He swallowed hard, to think of the shinobi’s family – screaming to the gods and tearing at the sky for bearing a son that had been born in an era of hatred and bloodshed, violence and death – for giving them a child that was never meant to last.

He closed his own eyes, to mourn a death of a man he never knew – a _foolish_ man he would never know – who fought for this thing called peace.

A sudden gasp snapped him back to reality. He whipped his head around to glance at the darkhaired boy whose eyes had widened with astonishment. There was another silence as the wind tore through the trees, their leaves flying.

“Are you…” the boy gaze travelled down to Hashirama’s poised stance, ripples enveloping from the chakra being transmitted, “…a Shinobi?”

“So the war has finally reached these lands, eh? It’s best if you head home.”

Hashirama turned to glance at the dead shinobi’s face once more. He was young, no less than the age of fourteen. He was still a child – oh, but _still_ a child – who had lost whilst playing an adult game. Hashirama bowed his head and sighed.

“I should probably leave as well.” With this incident already underway, there would be news to report to the Senju clan. He leapt from the body to land softly on the other side, pivoting in a bid to farewell this newfound stranger. “See you…um…?” He paused as the realization that the boy had never even exchanged names dawned upon him.

“I’m Madara.”

The darkhaired boy smirked. There was a dangerous fire lingering in his eyes, Hashirama noted, a shadow of a flame waiting to be set alight. The boy called Madara placed a pebble in the pocket of one of his garments. “Not revealing your surname to a stranger…is a basic code of conduct for shinobi.”

Even when he had failed to reach the other side, Madara had always looked proud to Hashirama. Now there was a glint of acknowledgement in his dark orbs, a yearning to not just reach the other side – to not just be the fastest one to throw a pebble – but to reach the heights of a mountain – to reach the top. Hashirama gave a small smile in recognition of the smoking blaze that had begun to set aflame the far northern lands. The pebbles that had been long dropped into the waters of the river had brought small reverberations of ripples. Now they were transforming with the merging currents.

“As I thought, I figured you were one as well.”

As their eyes met and the atmosphere around them appeared to fold in and out over time, it was ironic that they stood across from each other of the river, nestled inside a forest of trees that in some parts were consumed with a blazing tongue of fire. As the boy called Madara began to gather his outer garments off a large stick that protruded from the ground Hashirama wondered how long it would take for _that_ pebble to reach the other side. In the end, the prospect would never be denied by fate.

With the smell of burning woods in the midst, he turned on his heel and walked off.

~-0-~

He may have been the one of the finest – or perhaps – _the_ finest shinobi that his clan had ever produced, however, Uchiha Madara was perplexed.

He trudged slowly along the expanse of the forest, cringing at the occasional sunlight that filtered through the tree branches; an urging desire to twist and flatten every small twig that lay upon his path. As he turned a corner, he readjusted his garments. A small fawn was slung over his back, the tips of its bloodied heels trailing over the leaves that covered the earth’s floor. At the slow, however yet profuse stench, an overbearing sensation to wrinkle his nose surged through him.

_How annoying._

The first time he had killed, the hunt was over before it had even begun.

His father had taken him to the mountainside; apparently the harsh terrain had better effects on the mind than the usual grass plains he had been brought up with. Stunning as it may have been considered by ordinary standards, the views were only second to the ocean waves that greeted him in his usual mornings.

And then within minutes, he had been ordered to make his move.

The bloody slaughtering of a family, a random encountering of wild livestock, he recalled how it only took the tip of a single kunai to tear the bodies limb by limb.

There was screaming and crying, countless pleas for lives as he retracted a dozen pairs of shuriken at the end of the clean kill. As they had writhed in agony of the pain and the torment, many of the adult Uchiha had revelled with the gods, given the circumstances.

In the end, silent animals had always been held in his favour.

It was only a few seconds at the most, and as Madara continued to walk he apprehended that wiping his weapons from the blood it had been smeared and soaked with took far longer than it did to retract them from a body – warm or cold.

It was during the particularly harsh fall, did the Uchiha clan elders decided that a hunt to test the children’s virility would commence at the beginning of winter, where the flames of lit fires had been long smothered from the cold. As if the peaking mortality rates of the warring eras weren’t enough, many of the childrens’ health were decreasing rapidly in the perishable cold.

A single falter, a slight hesitation in striking the selected targets, would have deemed Madara’s efforts futile and like so many, perhaps have left him to walk back to the clan’s tent empty-handed. Those who did walk back unsuccessful, would bear the scars of a punishing lash, a whipping ensuing that failure to kill the enemy would be the least of their worries.

 “Those _things_ , wretched they may be, but they are _beasts_. Beasts have escaped from their captor.”

When Madara had returned to the base camp of the clan’s site with an armful of dead carrion that would last them for months the next morning, unknown hands reached towards him.

Hands he did not know.

Hands which were just so… _big_.

“You’re a man now, son. Be proud.”

They had made their way around his shoulders, marvelled at the incisions on the skin and fascinated with the degree of depth his weapons had stabbed their way through. They had slapped his back and congratulated him for the death of an enemy, leaning forward and speaking to him in sharp, snarky breaths of mixed liquor and spicy curry paste that intertwined with his own.

It wasn't long before his father’s big hands had loomed over his own to reach for a torn wrist and examine the number of rings worn on the emaciated fingers. The Uchiha elders had nodded impressively at the sight and smiled at him, whispering that in a few years, a thousand hands would be at his bidding. In a few years, a thousand hands would be his path to the top.

“Hold your head Madara, hold your head high.”

He closed his eyes at the thought.

It caused him to ponder as to how much blood of his enemies those hands could cup – how much blood his _own_ hands would one day splash against the trees and rocks.

He evoked the image of his mother caressing the lifeless creature, a finger slowly tracing over the ridged spine. She had been impressed with the approbation and squealed with delight, as every mother would of her child, as to which she tore out the organs and spread the skin so far it stretched over the bones as quickly as the walls had been smeared with a decorative fashion, the Uchiha crest in blood.

Sooner or later the limp bodies had been thrown into a great fire – and the Uchiha danced.

As they sang, their voices cried to the heavens and the soldiers twirled their swords and women and children swayed their hips to the hymns of sacramental implication, he recalled a tiny Izuna gazing off into the distance. That day, the very morning Madara had returned with a bunch of rabbits in his arms, Izuna had neither smiled nor frowned. There was a curious question in his eyes, as he had merely nodded and shrugged his shoulders to offer his congratulations. During that night of celebration, Madara had to squint past the blaze of a large bonfire, for Izuna could not be seen past the flames, only to be found standing a few feet behind his father, gazing at the inferno.

It was during that night he had to rub his eyes, for they had started to close at the sight of the burning, splintering wood that crackled. It was during that night that he had to look harder through the conflagration of smoke and heated torridness, for Izuna seemed had caught his gaze with neither the expected fervour nor fascination, but rather – fear.

As Madara had stared beyond those flames and into the horizon, however blackened and tarnished it may have been into that night, there was a beauty that he had always known; that he would never be able to comprehend.

In the end, the bones, marrow and all – the beauty of natural life’s severed head had been burnt in the laughter of his father. 

“Those _things_ are _monsters_ , yet, they are no different from you and I. Monsters that have lost their way in the abyss.”

He recalled the look in Izuna’s eyes, and wondered if shinobi were all the same.

He speculated in such a world: does the hunter ever hesitate?

He wondered if perhaps…he should’ve killed the boy from the river.

But then again –

_This world is growing neither better nor worse. It’s just turning around – as per usual._

He stopped, and for a moment, turned to look back at the place where he had met the strange boy from the river.

Since he first ignored that slight flair of chakra in the trees, the occasional footsteps that drew a funny crunching sound behind him back then, the pebble that made its way to the other side, he knew that perhaps in this wretched, _wretched_ world – that there was someone who would grow all that he had burnt.

At first Hashirama seemed like nothing.

A boy lost in the war, strung along with ideals of playing tag in boundaries that were hidden – he could’ve killed him in an instant.

But Hashirama had smiled first, the corners of his mouth turned upward and the lids of his eyes gleamed as the boy grinned sheepishly, and then Madara was not so sure then.

It made him feel nervous.

He knew that if ever returned back to the place they met, the river where they threw the pebbles, he would never be sure again, because Hashirama had reached the other side first.

He would never be sure again, because Hashirama had made the first move.            

_In this world, we sing of fire as the trees rejoice in our burning glory._

“Ni-san! Ni-san!”

Reality drew its timeless cuffs as Madara looked up. He looked up to glance in the direction of the familiar voice and lowered a raised kunai, relaxing his stance.

_There are many things in this world that I want to burn._

“You really caught a deer this time! Just wait til we remove the antlers!”

_However, it seems that in this world, there is so much that has yet to grow._

Millions of thoughts raced through his mind, but they were like valleys that could not fathom with the heights of a mountain.

Slow, gradual steps transformed into leaps and soon he was in range of the clan’s campsite. As he ran forward, he ignored the whispering murmurs of his kinsmen, observing his every move. As he danced over the rough patches of grasses that lay covered with debris of bloodied fabric, he ignored the heated smoke that surged through his lungs.

He halted in front of small pyre and licked his lips in the expectation of a boy, for it seemed as if it was his existence was all that truly mattered now.

A smile graced his features and he breathed softly.

“I’m back, Izuna.”

Madara, by many standards, would’ve have been considered a man, be it at the age of eight or nine. Yet as a boy no older than seven turned around grinned sheepishly, he was sent hurling back  to realization that men should’ve have to kill little boys of the Senju clan – of _any_ clan.

Instead of assisting others to the saturation of the small towering pyre, Izuna was fanning the flames. 

~-0-~

The sound of rushing water and the crunching of dead leaves failed to degrade Tobirama as a gust of wind ran through the trees, closing his eyes to relish the sensation.

A booming echo sounded off into the distance, and he waited for Mother Nature to mock him of his younger brother’s death, to create such fires that would leave embers to dance on his younger brother’s ashes.

It seemed as if rather, it was an amalgamation of remorse and fury that prevented him from grieving.

_Kawarama._

Void of emotion, he stared at the Senju symbol etched on a small coffin became smaller, smaller and soon, diminutive from visible sight. The group of men lowering his brother’s remains to the ground seemed to croon against the ricochets of nearby explosions, chanting that he was once again one with the soil. He scoffed at the reaction; for a dead child is tree that has had its life torn from the earth, when the seed had not yet even been sown.

Itama continued to sob.

“Shinobi do not shed tears!” barked Butsuma, “Our purpose in life is to die on the field of battle! Just be thankful that a portion of his corpse was retrieved! It seems as though the Uchiha have joined the Hagaromo in opposing us. Those savages are heartless.”

Tobirama bit his lip; curling in distaste at his father, the man who would grip him by the wrist and introduced to the Daimyo as the soldier who could cheat death and pull the strings. He turned his face away from Hashirama, the brother who could grow what was burnt, as father and son argued with such conflicting ideologies that it confounded him in the least manner, as to where the boundaries of ethics and morals seemed to lie.

Hashirama and Butusma continued to shout.

_Sacrifice is a continuum born in blood._

“He was only seven! How much longer must this war drag on?!”

_In the end, we know nothing._

“It ends when one side has been completely eradicated. Death and war will pave the way for peace.”

_In the end, everything is just a gag._

“Even if that means doing so with the blood innocent children?”

As Butsuma’s fist collided with Hashirama’s cheek, Tobirama realised that his brother had fallen.

 “You dare spit on Kawarama’s sacrifice? He lived up to his name as a shinobi and died as a proud warrior! There was nothing innocent about him!”

Veracity of the world he existed in, seemingly maintained its clutches as Itama left his side, “You okay Hashirama?!”

Hashirama was in deep concentration, a rare sight for the eyes. An exasperated sigh escaped Tobirama’s lips and he knelt next to his brother, scanning his legs for light wounds. “You know what happens when you mouth off to Father…”

“All those empty words about the Senju clan being the embodiment of _love_ and _compassion_ are utter crap!”

Of course, Hashirama healed quickly.

“Is this what it truly means to live as a true shinobi?”

He always did.

“It’s just propaganda adults use to brainwash us kids!”

But there was a bruise forming near the bottom of his mouth, small lacerations and abrasions covering his legs and arms.

“You called them savages, but we’re doing the exact same thing to all the Uchihas!”

And as long as this war continued, Hashirama like so many others would continue to bleed.

“What we’re doing is, simply being respectful.” Disagreed Butsuma, and he shook his head accordingly, “Once you set foot on the field of battle – regardless of age – you will be treated accordingly. Raising our children into capable shinobi is the most sincere form of love a parent can give!”

Yet Tobirama knew that fire could not fight with fire, and he could only stand to the side as Hashirama transformed into an inferno – and raged. 

“So the only way to _live_ as a true shinobi is to die? It’s a never-ending cycle of death and no one here can even explain why it has to be that way! We have to hide our surnames for fears of retaliation!” 

He watched as his brother seemed to speak of towering pyres, which would eclipse the sun and set the day alight whilst clans from all over the lands would dance and sing in unison.

He pondered if the skies could ever tear apart like they did in the legends, fully knowing about the eye’s perceptive illusions and the mind’s ever so eloquent delusions.

Yet, Tobirama didn’t seem to mind as father and son continued to erupt.

“This ideal of shinobi you have built in your head is twisted and wrong!”

“I will not stand here and be lectured by some little boy!”

He himself would often dream of a world of truce, a place where one could create a system of regulations and conditions. For once, Tobirama didn’t care if it was his dream, or Hashirama’s.

He closed his eyes.

 “Father,” he began as he raised his arms and stepped forward, “Hashirama is simply overwhelmed by his emotions. Please forgive him.”

Butsuma furrowed his brow and a frustrated expression covered his hard features, as he motioned his departure. “You must choose your words more wisely, Hashirama.”

He huffed and stalked off. Soon, Hashirama and Itama followed suit.

Tobirama watched the silhouette of his brothers darken amongst the trees, but the colours of their armour seemed to blend with the bushes that they failed to discern the distinguishable tones between of the two.

~-0-~

_“What the hell are you doing, brother?”_

The boy with the bowl haircut sprang at the sudden voice and despite being snuck up upon, again and _again_ – laughed heartily.

“Tobirama! I told you to stop doing that!”

“Don’t blame others for your lacking level of sensing skills.”

“Itama! Don’t laugh at me, either!”

“Tobirama is right, Hashirama. You know he always is.”

Tobirama raised an eyebrow at the melancholic tone of the coming of laughter, his older brother’s eyes seemingly too ascetic for the stupid grin on his face. He frowned as his gaze travelled to the floor, numerous sketches on the ground too shambolic to make any sort of legitimate meaning out of it.

“I don’t recall you stating what you’re exactly doing, brother.”

“I’m err…learning how to be a grownup by…um,” Hashirama met his stare and grinned nervously, eyes flitting back and forth to his feet. “…venting my feelings by writing them out.”

 “And I suppose the ground is nice place to do that?”

“Well…”

“And the bunch of small _burnt_ trees that are in front of me are really just a lovely scorched bouquet in the attempt to form an apology to father?”

“Brother...”

Hashirama let a low whine as the Tobirama folded his arms in _oh, so father-like_ gesture.

“Oh, fine! I’m working on a battle mechanic.”  

Tobirama tilted his chin in a demanding way that even Itama had recognised so well.

“One that I’ll be able to use when engaging with numerous blows from the enemy. It’ll involve the utilisation of both fire and wood. Think of it as an attack with the ability to produce plants at the speed of light, call it sprouting if you like.”

“An attack with _what?”_

It was perhaps the most ridiculously bizarre thing Tobirama had heard.

He snorted with annoyance, somewhat throwing a disgruntled glare at Hashirama who seemed too absorbed in whatever the heck he was doing to notice. Tobirama stepped forward and scrutinised a number of hand seals closely, heedful to any possible structure of the hand formations.

However after a few minutes of sheer silence and the buzzing sound of Itama’s humming, he gave an affirmative nod at the sight of a small tree and flame prevailing reasonably. Soon, Tobirama’s bottom lip was bitten hard as the small embers of the fire latched upon the roots and thin fibres of the trees and a number of leaves began to crumble against the carnivorous, hunger of the searing fire.

Above it all – he gasped.

The fire brought forth life to the tree, stimulating many of the seeds needed to continue to the renewal of the plant that was certainly obligatory for germination and continual propagation. The tree itself seemed to convey a message of universal concord, feeding the everlasting tongues of the fire and retaining the ability to grow new shoots of abundant trees and shrubs.

_Fire is the blood of the tree._

But then fire began to consume the tree.

Tobirama watched in silence as his brother fisted his hands and clenched his jaw, an inferno shrouding the thick roots and consuming the supposed entity once more.  The leaves seemed to be giving way to the flames, as if wanting to appease – hoping to appease it.

But even he knew that greed was a child asking to be fed, its hunger never forsaken.

The tree and the fire were waging a war that could not be won.

A shroud of smoke covers their view and Hashirama fell back with a grunted yelp. Tobirama and Itama were there in an instant.

“Are you alright?”

A sudden hiss of pain was a heard and a hand was brought to his apparently bruised backside.

“Yeah,” Hashirama’s lips formed an embarrassed smile at the cost of another scowl, “I’m fine – always am. I guess I gotta work on that charka control for the time being.”

“My hair is going to fall out one day. Thanks to the likes of you, it’s already bloody white.”

Leaving Itama to examine Hashirama sheepishly rubbing his bottom, Tobirama stared at the trunk of the tree, tattered and torn. A grimace formed on his face as concluded that the tree had been undeniably twisted due to the rampant nature of the flame, aware that deep engravings on the bark were due to the actions of the tree attempting to concur with the requests flame.

His face darkened slightly at the thought, for the endless array of hunger requests had malformed into commands.

Once again he found himself glancing back at his older brother and a growl ensued.

“Regardless of the incoherent _battle mechanic_ you said you were working on, what on _earth_ were you trying to do, Hashirama?”

This time, it was Hashirama who sighed bitterly.

“I’m trying to see if both a tree and a fire can grow and even perhaps, merge with one another without destroying one another in the process.”

Tobirama gaped at him with such bewilderment that he could have kicked him.

 _“A tree and a fire.”_ He repeated, scrunching his nose as if the words tasted bitter on his tongue, “you wanted to merge a _tree_ and _fire_ without the tree being consumed or the fire dying out.”

Hashirama nodded as Itama spoke up.

“Nii-san, I think Hashirama just wanted to –”

“A burnt tree will not aid you in battle, brother, nor will it impress the Senju commanders for the time being unless you intend to use them for your personal decoys to the Hagoromo clan as to which I think would actually father cry in happiness if they truly fell foul to such a thing.”

“Tobi…” whimpered Hashirama but he was cut off sharply.

“Father will not be pleased to know that you’re wasting valuable time on producing _burnt trees.”_

Itama shot a glare at him as Hashirama suddenly tensed, frowning at the sudden implication of Butsuma. Tobirama rubbed his brow and offered a hand, a realization dawning upon him. Their father was always a delicate matter in regards to Hashirama and to his absent-mindedness of the subject; he had struck opened a rather tender wound.

“Look brother, I didn’t mean – I mean, what I’m trying to say is –”

“I’m not playing around, Tobirama.”

He was greeted with a wave of candour, fortitude sparkling in Hashirama’s dark orbs.

“I want to find a way to stop this endless fighting, to explain it to Father – to the grown-ups that there are other ways of...bringing peace.”

Tobirama considered his declaration as Hashirama slowly turned away, a light somewhat fading. Yet as the white haired boy glanced back at the tree and closed his own slanted eyes, an internal chuckle rumbled.

_You may be a fool, brother, but you’re a respectable one at that._

“Grownups are idiots…” He responded slowly, “If they really want to bring an end to endless fighting, they need to sit down with one another and reach a truce.”

“That’s easy to say, but then who will take revenge for all the loved ones we’ve lost?” queried Itama, who had sat down. “They’d roll in their graves if we just let bygones be bygones.”

Tobirama snorted at the irony of the ending statement, amused at the satire. “Keep thinking like that and we’ll be burying you real soon.”

Itama clamped his jaw shut as he continued to speak.

“That way of thinking, is exactly like the grownups. We’re in this mess because shinobi keep seeking vengeance. What shinobi need to do is form some standard, some code. Only then will all this senseless killing come to an end.”

Hashirama gazed at the ground and raised his head, “I wonder…” and stood up slowly. “Can we reach a truce, or better yet, even form a kinship?”

For a moment, just a moment, light seemed to glint in eyes and Tobirama began to wonder if his brother had a solution as to which the location he could not comprehend.

“I want to fan the dying embers of a flame and grow what burnt from their ashes.” 

It was gone too quickly before he was able to confirm it.

The past image of his brother conversing with the strange boy from the river flitted across his mind. A taste of incertitude seemed to spread across his tongue, and he began to narrow his eyes at the recent memory.

With the rushing waters of the river now lost and far, _far_ from his view, he stared at a raised hand and began to wonder if the sun and the moon had ever exchanged words.

_Have they ever swathed in their own light?_

“Hmm, an actual kinship?”

He wondered why his brother would ever be so drawn to the boy during a situation like this, an endless battle of the decaying and those who withstood the fires.

He wondered if the name _Madara_ should be casted with blood into his memory, even if his own fingers became tattered and torn.

Yet, Tobirama looked down at his fingers and spat bitterly on the ground.

They had already been long broken.

_Ambition has one heel nailed in well, though she stretches her fingers to touch the heavens._

Far, far too many times.


End file.
